


Honeypot

by slashy (slashmyheartandhopetoporn)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bees, Dreams, Dreamsharing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-28 11:02:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5088187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slashmyheartandhopetoporn/pseuds/slashy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cain laughs softly. “No, Dean. I just wanted to explain why I’ve been bringing you here. I’ve been thinking about you, and your dreams indicate that—on some level—you’ve been thinking about me too. I thought maybe you wanted to talk about it.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honeypot

The first time Dean dreams about Cain, it’s almost three weeks after he’s killed the demon. There isn’t much to the dream—just the pair of them staring at one another in some non-descript field. It’s quiet, except for the wind and the rustle of the tall yellow grass surrounding them, and neither one of them says a word. They just drink each other in. The scent of honey fills the air.

Deans wakes up in his bed in a cold sweat and can’t remember anything but Cain’s expression: eyes soft, lips turned slightly upward. He runs to the bathroom to vomit.

Just over a month after, Dean doesn’t dream about Cain so much as he dreams about bees. Cain’s there, somewhere, just beyond the scope of Dean’s sight, but it’s the bees that fill his vision. It’s like he’s standing in some giant hive, everything cast in a golden hue, and thousands of bees swarm around Dean as he collapses into a ball and tries not to breathe. The bees are everywhere, touching him everywhere. They’re working their way into his ears, forcing themselves into his nose and mouth. They don’t sting Dean, but everything smells and tastes like pollen and honey, and over the crushing roar of their buzzing, Dean can just barely hear Cain in the background.

“Just let it happen, Dean,” Cain says quietly as Dean tries not to scream. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

When Dean comes too, he’s breathing heavily, the taste of honey clinging to his throat, the scent overpowering his nose. He’s in his room at bunker, which he’s grateful for. It means Sam doesn’t have to watch his panic.

When he comes downstairs to pour himself a cup of coffee, Sam is adding honey to his tea. Dean freezes and abruptly turns on his heel.

“I need some air,” he barks out at Sam as he makes his way upstairs. “I’ll be right back.”

In his head, he can still hear Cain’s voice whispering, “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

The dreams begin to come more steadily until they’re almost coming every night. Sometimes Cain is there, and sometimes there’s something else that reminds Dean of the demon, but not the demon himself. Always there is the smell of honey. When Cain is there, they never carry a conversation. Dean will sometimes open his mouth, but no words come out, and dream-Cain seems content to merely be in Dean’s presence.

Once, after a particularly exhausting hunt, Cain takes Dean’s hand and brings it to his lips. Dean can feel the brush of Cain’s beard against his skin, the softness of his lips against his knuckles. Then it’s over and Cain is releasing Dean’s hand. Dean wakes up with a hard-on after _that_ one.

 

-

 

After months of dreaming about Cain, Dean opens his eyes and immediately realizes he’s not actually awake. He can tell, though, that he isn’t actually dreaming either, that he’s instead somehow left the realm of sleep and moved into some strange dream-like consciousness not unlike the places he used to go with Cas back when they were still fighting the apocalypse. It’s not so developed, though, this world, the backdrop to the place a stark white, not even the whisper of a wind to keep Dean company. There is, however, the faint sound of _buzzing_ that catches Dean’s attention, accompanied by the ever-so-faint smell of honey, and when he turns to find the source, he sees a single beehive busy with activity.

Cain is standing beside it.

He’s dressed as he was the first time Dean met him, in a Henley tucked into trousers, but his hair and beard match the state they were in when Dean ran the first blade between Cain’s shoulders. His arms are folded as he watches his bees flit about.

“They’re not doing very well,” he says absent-mindedly. “I don’t know why they aren’t doing well. I’ve taken care of them as best I can.”

Dean narrows his eyes and walks slowly in Cain’s direction. “Where are we?” he asks.

But Cain’s focus is solely on his bees. “I just don’t understand. I’ve kept the hive in good condition, done all the necessary maintenance—”

“ _Cain_ ,” Dean repeats, voice firm. “Where are we?”

Finally Cain turns his head to look at Dean. “Nowhere,” he answers.

“What does that mean?”

Cain shrugs. “What I said. This place isn’t anywhere. It just is. I made the best of it with my bees, but the effort to bring them here was more taxing than anticipated. I had to wait a long time to summon you, even in your current disembodied form.”

Dean frowns and looks down at himself before realizing, “So I’m still back at the motel?”

Cain nods. “Mostly.”

“I don’t know what the hell that means, but I’m just going to let it go. But speaking of which, shouldn’t _you_ be in Hell? I killed you, and I can’t imagine you ending up anywhere else.”

“They couldn’t keep me there long,” Cain says with a dismissive wave of a hand. “The cage is already pretty occupied, and I’m too powerful for everywhere else down there. Of course, I can’t exactly reside on earth, and purgatory’s far from appealing.” Cain looks around and extends both arms. “So I carved myself out a little space here. At least I have my bees here.”

Dean remains wary. “Then why am _I_ here?”

Cain’s face softens. “I just wanted to see you.”

Dean’s about to ask what that means when he’s opening his eyes back at the motel. Sam’s already up and lumbering his way around the bathroom. He looks over his shoulder at Dean.

“Good, you’re up. We should get an early start so we make it to Eurkea by evening.”

Dean nods and rubs the spot on his forearm where the mark used to be. “I’ll get moving,” he says.

 

-

 

About a month later he’s dozing in the Impala when it happens again. The background is still white, but now there are three beehives instead of one.

Cain looks the same as he did last time, and he smiles warmly at Dean as soon as Dean opens his eyes.

“They’re doing much better,” he says. “The bees, I mean.”

“I don’t give a shit about the bees, Cain,” Dean says sharply. “Tell me: what is this about?”

“Maybe I just wanted some company, Dean. And there’s no one else I’d rather see.”

Dean scoffs. “Summon Colette.”

Cain’s expression sours. “Colette is dead. She couldn’t exist here even if I did want to see her. No, it’s better that it’s you.”

“Aren’t you dead, too?” Dean asks. “Yet you exist here just fine.”

Cain tilts his head. “Surely it won’t surprise you to know that those like me seldom truly die.”

“But I stabbed you with the first blade,” Dean insists. “Don’t stand there and tell me that you’re alive.”

“I’m not,” Cain agrees. “I may not be exactly dead, but I haven’t meant to suggest I’m quite alive either.”

“Fine,” Dean spits. “Whatever the hell you are, stop bringing me here.”

“How’s life without the mark?” Cain asks, ignoring Dean’s last comment. “Does it sometimes feel like it’s still there?”

Dean grits his teeth. “I mean it, Cain. Stop it. And send me back, while you’re at it.”

Cain shakes his head, but he’s still smiling softly. “I’ll send you back when I’m good and ready, Dean.” Then he simply stares at Dean, takes in his worn tee shirt and ratty jeans. He watches Dean stand awkwardly before him for well over five minutes before finally waving his hand again.

Dean wakes up in the car a moment later.

 

-

 

“Jesus Christ, Cain, you can’t keep doing this to me.”

It’s been almost two months and now the beehives are nestled in amongst a beautiful green-gold pasture, wildflowers dappling the landscape.

“I’m getting stronger,” Cain says with satisfaction, and Dean can only heave a sigh.

“What are you working towards, man? You know if you come back, I’ll just put you down again.”

Cain exposes his right forearm and raises a brow. “Would you really?”

The skin is bare, unmarred. The mark is gone.

“Did I do that?” Dean asks, though his throat’s gone dry.

“Unexpected consequence of using the blade on someone who has the mark,” Cain says.

“And you think that means that, should you find a way back, I won’t do my damndest to kill you again?”

“I was hoping it merely meant you’d be willing to entertain the idea. If nothing else, I thought you might be less resistant to these summonings.”

“I don’t understand what these summonings are _for_.”

“Company,” Cain says simply.

“Bullshit,” counters Dean.

Cain takes a step towards Dean, but goes no further when he sees Dean stiffen. “Remember the first time you found me? When I said I felt connected to you?” He waits for Dean to nod, a slight and jerky motion. “I still feel that way. And while I don’t exactly miss being alive, I find I do inexplicably miss you.”

“You don’t even know me.”

Cain smiles. “On the contrary, I know you intimately.”

“I _killed_ you.”

“You do recall I asked you to do just that when we first met? No hard feelings that you followed through.”

“Well, I don’t miss you.”

Cain maintains his smile. “That might be true. But Dean—I know about the dreams.”

Dean pales. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Why bother with the denial game?” Cain asks as he takes another step towards Dean. “We both know you’re lying. If it makes you feel better, I haven’t personally been in them, just so you know. Any version of me that appears is solely your own creation.”

Dean doesn’t see the point in pretending the dreams aren’t happening, so it’s with resignation that he says, “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

Cain laughs softly. “No, Dean. I just wanted to explain why I’ve been bringing you here. I’ve been thinking about you, and your dreams indicate that—on some level—you’ve been thinking about me too. I thought maybe you wanted to talk about it.”

“I don’t,” Dean says firmly. “I want them to go the fuck away.”

“Maybe seeing me directly will help with that.”

“I’ve seen you twice already and it hasn’t done shit. Every morning I still wake up tasting honey. It makes me sick to my stomach.”

“Maybe your subconscious is trying to tell you something.”

“Well, I don’t want to hear it.”

Cain frowns, brow knitting together. “Let me know when you do,” he says, and then Dean’s waking up properly in his own bed.

 

-

 

Cain doesn’t summon Dean to his bizarre self-contained dream world for months after their last meeting, but Dean’s private dreams about the demon switch into overdrive all the same.

He dreams of running his hands through Cain’s hair, of slotting their thighs together, of linking their fingers. Sometimes he dreams of none of those things, of simply lying in a field while pollen sits thick in the air and bees lazily fly over Dean’s head. On one notable occasion Dean dreams of honey dripping from the sky directly onto his naked body, falling gently on his face, sliding over his eyes and lips, slinking into his mouth, trickling down over his chest. Thick warm lines of honey oozing their way over his belly button and moving ever downward until his cock is glistening with the stuff, stiffening and dripping a nectar all its own. He wakes up from that dream with cum all over his stomach and chest, sweat drenching the rest of him.

He’s short with Sam when he comes out for breakfast, unable to explain why. He doesn’t think it’ll go over well if he explains that he’s been dreaming about being intimate with the Father of Murder for almost an entire year. Sam just does his best to steer clear of Dean when he’s in such a shit mood, and Dean privately thanks him for it so it spares him having to talk about things.

The night immediately following what Dean has come to think of as The Honey Dream, he’s summoned once again by Cain. The field now sports a small house akin to the one Cain had back in Missouri. Cain stands in the doorway, leaning against the jamb with a cup of something steaming in his hands.

“Want to come inside?” he asks.

Dean doesn’t want to, of course, but he also knows there’s no getting out of here until Cain feels ready to let Dean go, so he squares his shoulders and marches himself up to the house.

“Good man,” Cain says as he steps aside to let Dean pass.

“There’s nothing I want to say you,” Dean spits as soon as they’re both inside. “I don’t want to talk about my dreams, I don’t want to talk about you, and I absolutely do not want to talk about you and me.”

Cain only smiles. “Can I get you a cup of tea?”

Dean scowls. “You can get me out of here.”

“I have a hard time believing that’s what you really want. Especially after last night.”

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Dean snarls.

“I don’t mean to mock you, Dean,” Cain says gently.

“Then what’s the point of all this?”

“I just want us to talk.”

“About what?” Dean shouts. “What the hell do you want me to say, Cain? I don’t understand what’s happening to me. I don’t understand any of it.”

“Sit with me, Dean. And have a cup of tea.”

“I don’t want a damn cup of tea,” Dean says, but Cain is already walking into the kitchen. He returns a moment later with a cup and saucer.

“Harvested the honey, myself,” he says with a grin and a wink, and Dean considers slapping the cup right out of Cain’s hand. He settles for pointedly not touching the cup at all.

Cain’s grin turns slightly threatening. “Take the cup, Dean. It's only polite.”

Dean takes the cup.

Cain sits in the armchair by the window and gestures for Dean to take a seat on the couch, then he goes back to enjoying his tea. “We don’t have to talk about your dreams,” he says eventually.

“I’d rather we didn’t talk at all.”

“You look well,” Cain says pleasantly. “Better than when we last met.”

“You still look like you need a haircut,” Dean replies.

“Colette never cared for my hair long either. But I’ve come to appreciate it.”

“Good to know,” Dean mutters.

Cain sighs and settles further into his chair. “What’s the weather been like topside?”

Dean’s confused. “I’m sorry?”

“The weather, Dean. What’s it like? Every day’s an idyllic Spring here.”

Dean shakes his head. “I don’t know. Cold. Rainy. It’s January, dude, it’s about what you’d expect.”

“I miss the rain,” Cain says, voice a little wistful.

“Can’t you make it rain here?” Dean asks, despite himself.

“It’s taken me months to cultivate the setting here. It would take me almost as long to change it.”

“I still don’t understand what you’ve done here.”

Cain swirls his tea. “I’ve taken a piece of nowhere and nothing and turned it into something, if not somewhere.”

“That explains nothing,” Dean says.

Cain chuckles. “Why does it matter?”

“I’m just trying to understand.”

“Why is it so important that you do?”

“Look, dick, you wanted to talk—so I’m fucking talking.”

Some of Cain’s mirth drains away. “Dean, I can’t really explain what I’ve done. It’s pure magic, chaotic magic. Its use is wholly intuitive, and most people—demon, witch, angel, or otherwise—are incapable of working it. I don’t know how to put it in terms you can understand beyond ‘I made something out of nothing’ and leave it at that. That is, after all, what I did.”

“Fine,” Dean says with a sigh. “You used your ancient demon mojo and got yourself some new digs. I guess that explanation is good enough for me. Whatever.”

Cain sighs then as well. “All right, Dean,” he says. “You can go.” And a moment later Dean is gone.

 

-

 

The next night Dean dreams about rain. Cain isn’t there, though the scent of honey is. It’s cold and grey and the rain is pouring down, but dream-Dean stands out in the middle of it and laughs, laughs like he’s never laughed before. He feels lighter than he has in years, soaked with rain as he may be. He thinks, _Cain would love this_. Then he wakes up.

When he comes to, he can hear rain pounding on the bunker ceiling. He covers his face with his pillow and refuses to think about what it might have felt like to wake up to the sound of rain with Cain beside him.

 

-

 

Cain only waits four days before he summons Dean again.

“It’s getting easier to bring you here,” he says.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Joy.”

“Is it really so bad to see me?”

Dean considers shouting an emphatic, “ _Yes_!” But between the dreams and dreamwalking, Dean hasn’t slept much over the last few nights, and he’s tired, so instead he says, “It’s just really fucking confusing.”

Cain smiles. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

He invites Dean into his home again, where the tea service is ready and waiting.

“What is it with you and tea?” Dean asks.

“It comforts me.”

“I prefer whiskey or beer for that.”

“That doesn’t surprise me, Dean. But you should give tea a fair shake.”

Dean falls onto the couch and grabs a cup. He takes a sip and blanches. “Bitter leaf water—no thanks.”

Cain takes a seat in his armchair. “There’s honey and cream on the tray.”

Dean sighs but pours a little cream and a little honey into his cup. He tries the tea again. “Not so bad,” he admits.

Cain smiles in approval before asking, “You’ve been dead before, haven’t you?”

Dean splutters into his cup. “Yeah,” he says, taken by surprise and wary.

“What was it like?”

Dean sets the cup down onto its saucer. “I don’t remember,” he answers honestly. “Only once was I allowed to remember.”

“Remember what exactly?”

“Heaven.”

Cain looks down at his tea. “And what was Heaven like?”

Dean can’t help but smile slightly at the memory. Of seeing Ash and Pam again. The memories he shared with Sam. “Not too shabby,” he says.

“Even ‘heavenly,’ one might say?”

Dean pulls a face. “Come on, man, even I wasn’t willing to sink so low with that one.”

Cain smirks as he looks up from his tea. “Sounds lovely,” he says. “My death felt very anti-climactic. I suspect that’s because I haven’t actually wholly died.”

“Yeah, what’s up with that?”

“The answer to that is more along the lines of the ‘something out of nothing’ train of thought.”

Dean throws a hand up in surrender. “Fine, I don’t want to know.”

“How’s Sam, by the way?” asks Cain.

“He's okay,” answers Dean. “Thing’s have calmed down since, you know. The whole Mark of You debacle.”

Cain nods. “I’m happy to hear that, Dean. Truly. I never wanted any of this for you.”

“Well, it all worked out.”

“Mostly,” Cain says.

They sit quietly for another ten minutes, and it’s only a little awkward. Dean drinks another cup of tea and tries to think of something to say.

“It still raining?” Cain asks.

“Yeah, it is,” answers Dean.

“Maybe I’ll get to see it again someday.”

Dean swallows, unsure of how to reply. “At this point,” he begins, “I’d say anything is possible.”

 

-

 

It’s been a week and Dean and Sam are cooped up at a 24 hour café in Austin while a storm passes through and flash floods the whole city. It’s 6:30 am, and the sun’s coming up as best it can through the storm clouds and lightning, and Dean sits out on the covered porch with a mug of hot tea doctored with milk and honey watching the rain pour down.

Sam comes out to join him after he orders his drink and claims a table. “Man, this came on fast,” he says.

Deans nods and sips his tea. “Do you ever wish the bunker had a porch?”

Sam shrugs. “It’d kind of defeat the purpose.”

“No, I know,” Dean says, looking sideways at Sam. “I was just thinking out loud.”

“I mean, it’d be nice to have a porch,” Sam says after a moment. “Maybe one day, right?”

Dean offers a half-smile. “Yeah, maybe.”

Then Sam notices the mug in Dean’s hands. “Are you drinking _tea_?”

“What, can’t a guy drink something besides coffee and alcohol?"

“Yeah, Dean, of course. I’m just surprised is all.” Then Sam turns and heads back inside to use the Wi-Fi.

Dean stays outside and watches the rain, drinking his tea that tastes like honey.

 

-

 

Two nights later when they’re back at the bunker, Dean dreams of kissing Cain. Not some delicate, gentle kiss either. They’re in a field brimming with wildflowers and bees and somehow it’s raining, though there’s not a cloud in the sky. Cain’s tongue is in Dean’s mouth, one hand buried in Dean’s hair while the other clings to his chin so Dean can’t move away. Dean’s cock is throbbing in his jeans and both of his hands are clutching at Cain’s sides, and the cloying taste of honey is inescapable in his mouth.

When he wakes, he doesn’t really wake at all; he opens his eyes and finds himself in front of Cain’s little house, standing before Cain, surrounded by Cain’s self-manifested field of flowers and beehives, and once again it is somehow raining, though the sun bears down heavy on the back of Dean’s neck.

“Are you finally ready to do something about this?” Cain asks.

Dean doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he kisses Cain instead. Cain’s hands come up to Dean’s face, and Dean’s hands fall to Cain’s waist. It’s with great relief that Dean learns that Cain does not, in fact, taste like honey. Dean doesn’t know what the hell he tastes like, but whatever it is makes Dean think of fire, hot and consuming.

“Come inside with me,” Cain whispers against Dean’s lips.

“Okay,” Dean replies thickly.

Once through the door they’re kissing again, Dean’s hands burying themselves in Cain’s thick mane of hair while Cain’s hands slide up under Dean’s shirt, and it’s the first time in _years_ that Dean’s felt giddy over the touch of another person.

“Is this real?” Dean asks, because he has to know. Has to give voice to the thought that’s been niggling at the back of his headspace every day since he first saw Cain standing next to that single beehive. Because what if he simply made it all up?

“Close your eyes,” Cain says. Then, “Trust me.”

Dean lets his eyes flutter shut and feels a lurch somewhere in his lower belly. He squeezes his eyes closed tighter.

“Dean,” Cain says quietly, and the quality of his voice sounds different. “Dean,” he whispers again, “Open your eyes.”

When he does, Dean finds with great shock that he’s back at the bunker, in his own bed, with Cain in the flesh beside him.

“Holy shit,” he says, breathless. “Holy fucking shit.”

Cain smiles and kisses Dean’s forehead. “This is what I’ve been working towards,” he says. “This very moment.” Then he caresses one of Dean’s cheeks.

“Sam’s going to kill me,” Dean says.

Cain laughs. “I’ll protect you.”

Dean realizes Cain probably could too.

“So this is real,” Dean says, and it’s then he notices he can’t smell a single drop of honey. “You’re really here.”

“I am.”

“And the mark—is it still gone?”

Cain lifts his Henley. His skin remains scar-free.

“Okay,” says Dean. “Okay.”

Cain lets his hand trail from Dean’s cheek down to his stomach. “Can we go back to kissing now?”

Dean thinks he should say no, that he needs to go find Sam before Sam finds Cain. But Cain’s hand is rubbing circles along Dean’s hip, and his lips are mere inches from Dean’s own, so he gives himself permission not to worry about Sam or their latest case or even _himself_ for five more minutes and presses his lips to Cain’s, closing the gap.

Cain laughs again through the kiss and links their fingers together. Then he pulls back to look Dean in the eyes and say, “Tomorrow we go see rain for real.”

Dean nods. “And I’ll let you make me a hot cup of tea.”

**Author's Note:**

> this ship has quickly become an otp, so feel free to hit me up on tumblr (slashmyheartandhopetoporn.tumblr.com) to talk more about them! 
> 
> there's a much bigger story here, but for now this is all i feel ready to tell. hope you enjoyed.


End file.
